ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  ‘Did you tell them how you came by this information?’ I said in alarm.

  ‘Of course not.’ He smiled thinly. ‘They were greatly surprised at the extent of my knowledge. However, with no firm evidence, we had no option but to release them.’

  ‘And the breakthrough you said you made this afternoon?’

  ‘It was quite by chance. The Stockholm police were recently tipped off that Marcellus and Vandenberg were plotting something there. They made their own enquiries. When I learnt about it, I thought they might uncover evidence of the plot to murder Wilson. But it was something completely different.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Marcellus and the lawyer were indeed hatching a plan. But it was to kidnap Wilson, not murder him.’

  ‘Kidnap him?’ I said, stunned. ‘At the Icehotel?’

  ‘In Stockholm. Their plan was well advanced. They knew what Wilson’s movements would be, and they contracted with someone to kidnap him. This tip-off led to the arrest of the would-be kidnapper today.’

  ‘What was the point of the kidnap? Ransom?’

  He finished the coffee. ‘I wondered about the motive but in the end it was the money. The police told the kidnapper that Wilson had been murdered and, not wanting to be accused of a murder that he did not commit, he gave them everything: dates, times, and the proof that Marcellus and Vandenberg were in it. We have Vandenberg’s cellphone and, now, Marcellus’s. The records will link them to the kidnapper and the plot.’

  ‘But Wilson wasn’t kidnapped.’

  ‘Unfortunately for him, he decided to take a last-minute holiday. Had he stayed in Stockholm, the plan would have gone ahead, and he would probably have been kidnapped and ransomed.’

  ‘And still be alive,’ I said sadly.

  ‘The kidnapper told us that Marcellus, having seen the Excelsior, felt that snatching Wilson here was out of the question. In the end, I think he and Vandenberg abandoned the idea.’

  ‘And they decided to murder him instead?’

  He smiled. ‘Much easier, do you not think?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘I’ve never planned a murder. Or a kidnap.’

  ‘I should hope not, Miss Stewart,’ he said, refilling the mugs. ‘Once I knew about the failed kidnap attempt, I put out word to arrest them. We found Vandenberg at the Excelsior. When we presented him with the evidence, he admitted everything.’

  ‘That he’d killed Wilson?’ I said, astonished.

  ‘Everything but that. He denied it strenuously. He said he was in Kiruna when Wilson was killed. He’d gone there to co-ordinate a new kidnap plan with Marcellus. It was to take place when Wilson returned to Stockholm. But then Wilson died.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘He was booked into a hotel in Kiruna.’ He made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘No-one saw him come and go, although it is a small hotel and the landlord is rarely there. However, I am convinced that Vandenberg is lying, and he and Marcellus killed Wilson. There is no hard evidence, so we will have to try for a confession. Vandenberg did admit the kidnap plot so with a little pressure he may admit to murder.’ He smiled grimly. ‘He thought he could save his skin by giving us evidence that would implicate Marcellus.’

  I took a wild guess. ‘The contents of the final diary page.’

  ‘Indeed, Miss Stewart,’ he said with an indulgent smile. ‘The final page was a memorandum by Wilson, countersigned by Vandenberg, to change his will.’

  ‘Cutting Marcellus out?’ I said softly.

  ‘In effect. Marcellus would still be provided for but he would have to greatly curtail his lavish lifestyle.’

  ‘Do you think Marcellus saw that page?’

  ‘Vandenberg told him what was on it. It provides the motive for the kidnap.’

  ‘So where was Wilson leaving his money?’ I said, knowing the answer. ‘His schools’ initiative?’

  ‘He wanted it to continue after he died. But there was another beneficiary, an obscure working men’s charity in South America.’

  I thought back to Mike’s account of his girlfriend’s family history. So Wilson had found a conscience at last. ‘Was it in Venezuela?’ I said.

  Hallengren raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Maracaibo.’ He looked amused. ‘The things you know, Miss Stewart.’

  I tried to get my head around it. ‘So Wilson was to be kidnapped and ransomed before he could give away the money.’

  ‘Once he had been ransomed, Vandenberg was going to launder the money by creating companies owned jointly by Marcellus and himself. When Marcellus learnt about the new will, he was not particularly worried as he would soon be getting millions from the ransom.’

  ‘But when the kidnap plans fell through, he saw his inheritance going down the drain, so he and Aaron murdered him. And with the final diary page removed, no-one would know about the new will. The old will, leaving everything to Marcellus, would still be the one in effect.’

  He smiled appreciatively. ‘You should have been a detective, Miss Stewart.’

  It made sense. What had Aaron said about the copy? It’s in a safe place. With Wilson dead, and Marcellus standing to gain a fortune under the old will, Aaron could still get his share by blackmailing him.

  ‘Which of them do you think went into Wilson’s room?’ I said.

  ‘My money is on Marcellus. His room was next to his father’s. He could have slipped a drug into his father’s food or drink, and pushed him onto the floor later that night. He would have expected everyone to be asleep at 2.00am.’

  Yes, Marcellus had the opportunity. But would he really have killed his father just for money? ‘What did Aaron say when you pressed him?’

  ‘Vandenberg tells a different story. He says Marcellus claimed that he had not gone into his father’s room until shortly before the police arrived. He saw his father was dead and immediately understood the consequences regarding his inheritance. He removed the key from Wilson’s wrist and hurried to the Locker Room. In a panic, he tore out the last few pages with writing on them. The only one he needed to remove, of course, was that final page.’

  ‘He said he did this after he’d seen his father was dead?’

  ‘So Vandenberg claims, but I do not believe it. I think that Marcellus took the key and went to the Locker Room as soon as he had pushed his father onto the floor.’

  I let out a deep breath. ‘He took a hell of a risk.’

  ‘There is always a risk,’ he said with a thoughtful nod, ‘but Marcellus must have thought it was acceptable. He was in a nearby room. He could slip in and out of his father’s room quickly.’

  ‘But wasn’t Marcellus the one to alert you to the missing pages?’

  ‘That was a whole day later, when he had had time to do a bit of thinking.’ He smiled grudgingly. ‘It was a good tactic. He hoped it would throw us off the scent.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it draw attention to the fact that Wilson may have been murdered?’

  ‘He must have known we would discover that ourselves. I told him there would be a post-mortem.’ He paused. ‘Marcellus told us that Wilson had a heart condition, and may have died of it. He showed us the medication.’

  ‘Yes, I saw Wilson use it on the plane.’

  ‘Wilson’s doctors advised us that his heart had a slight arrhythmia, for which they had prescribed Coumarinose.’

  ‘So, if it wasn’t for the post-mortem, it would have been the perfect murder,’ I said half to myself.

  He laughed then, a rich deep sound. It was the first time I’d heard it.

  ‘Believe me, Miss Stewart, there is no such thing. Marcellus was a bit too quick to tell us about his father’s heart, and our suspicions were raised. The post-mortem put an end to the weak heart theory.’ He grew serious. ‘There was something else, however, something one of my men remembered. Marcellus’s name had been linked to an incident in the United States. A woman that he had been seeing had been found dead of an overdose.’

  ‘Marcia Vandenberg? The heiress?’

>   ‘We requested the file from the New York police, hoping we would learn something useful. A particular detail caught our attention – traces of a barbiturate had been found in her body. Phenonal. The same barbiturate as in Wilson Bibby’s bloodstream. The New York police concluded that the killer had first sedated Miss Vandenberg by drugging her drink, then injected her with a lethal dose of heroin. It had to be someone she knew well enough to let into her apartment, and have a drink with. Their prime suspect was Marcellus Bibby.’

  ‘But he wasn’t convicted.’

  ‘He had an alibi for that night.’ He threw me an old-fashioned look. ‘But I put little stock in alibis, Miss Stewart.’

  ‘The same barbiturate?’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘And I put even less stock in co-incidences.’

  I played with the mug. ‘I don’t get it. She was Aaron Vandenberg’s sister. Would Aaron be such a buddy to someone suspected of murdering his sister?’

  ‘If it was also in his interests that his sister die. She was a step-sister, in point of fact, and he was her only surviving relative. And she was very wealthy.’ His eyes rested on mine. ‘Perhaps the kidnap of Wilson Bibby was not the first – how shall I put it? – criminal enterprise the two were involved in.’

  I rubbed my face hard, saying nothing.

  ‘We became suspicious when Marcellus’s story about not being outside the Locker Room did not agree with yours. He told us he spent the entire night in the Excelsior.’

  ‘Why did you believe my story and not his?’ I said, curious.

  He looked surprised. ‘Because you had no reason to lie and Marcellus did. I can tell when people are lying, Miss Stewart, and Marcellus struck me as a habitual liar from the moment I met him. He must have known he would be our prime suspect. Of course he would lie about going into the Locker Room. Admitting he was there would put him near the scene of the crime, at the time of the crime. With no witnesses, there would be no-one to challenge his version of events.’

  ‘But there was a witness,’ I said softly.

  ‘He must have concluded that he had not been identified.’ His mouth tightened. ‘It is as well that he was not able to identify you. Otherwise, Miss Stewart, he would have killed you the same night.’

  Dear God. I gulped my coffee, my hands shaking.

  ‘Marcellus told us that he had stayed drinking in the Excelsior after his father had retired. His story was that he had drunk too much, and could not face the cold. We checked, of course. His bed in the Excelsior had been slept in, but that proved nothing. He could have disturbed the bedclothes. Or pushed his father out of bed, taken the diary pages, then gone to sleep in the Excelsior. We learnt that, at approximately 2.00am, the Excelsior’s reception had been left unattended for half an hour. Marcellus would have seen the empty desk, and slipped out. The only people left in the lounge were guests who were blind drunk.’

  ‘So there’d be no-one who could credibly challenge his story.’ I hesitated. ‘But, if he hadn’t identified me, why did he try to kill me tonight?’

  He poured from the bottle and handed me the glass. ‘Because he learnt that Harry was still alive when you found him.’

  ‘But how would he know? And what does Harry’s death have to do with it?’

  His eyes moved over my face. ‘Marcellus would have overheard people in the Excelsior talking about Harry, and that you’d found him alive. I did, as soon as I arrived. It may have been speculation, but Marcellus must have assumed it was true. We believe that he killed Harry, and he tried to kill you because Harry told you the name of his killer.’

  ‘But if Harry had named him, then I’d have told you, and Marcellus would have been arrested. Surely he’d know that.’ I rolled the glass between my hands. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Maybe not a name, then, but a clue.’ He frowned. ‘Marcellus should have known that we would need evidence beyond a tenuous suggestion from a dying man before arresting someone for murder. But I believe that by then he was not thinking straight. When we interviewed him after Harry was killed, he was greatly altered. Who knows what his state of mind was? Not all killers are cold-blooded, Miss Stewart. He may have planned to kidnap his father, but I think he was a reluctant murderer.’

  ‘You think he was pushed into it by Aaron?’

  ‘It is possible.’ He gulped the brandy. ‘My theory is that Marcellus thought you would work things through and identify him as Harry’s killer. He could not wait. He tried to kill you that same night in the Icehotel.’

  I felt a sudden stab of fear. The huge figure in black. So, it had been Marcellus.

  Hallengren spoke clinically, as though counting off items on a shopping list. ‘It would be risky killing you in the Icehotel, but it was still an opportunity. After he saw you fall through the ice, he slipped away, assuming you would drown or die of hypothermia. But when he learnt you were still alive, he searched for another way. Falling to your death from the church tower would be seen as an accident.’

  My head was spinning. ‘Hold on, can we back up a bit, Inspector? Let’s go back to Harry. Why did Marcellus kill him?’

  ‘That is the part of the puzzle we cannot solve. We cannot find a motive.’ He poured more brandy. ‘But I am convinced that it is linked to your and Harry’s contradictory accounts of the night you spent in the Icehotel.’

  I searched his face. ‘Inspector, although Harry told you he was asleep the night Wilson was murdered, I did see him leave his room. You must believe me.’

  ‘So why would he lie, Miss Stewart? What reason would he have?’

  ‘I can’t help you there,’ I said sadly. ‘But, on the subject of motive, could Harry have passed Marcellus on his way from the Locker Room? Maybe Marcellus thought he would put two and two together later.’

  He brushed the suggestion aside. ‘If Marcellus thought Harry had seen him, he would not have waited. He would have murdered him the same night.’ He went to the notice board and studied the plan of the Icehotel. ‘But perhaps we have been coming at this from the wrong direction. Perhaps what you saw was something different. You say you re-entered the Icehotel by the front door?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then maybe it was Marcellus you saw in your corridor and not Harry. In the time it took you to reach your room, Marcellus could have run through the Locker Room, taken Wilson’s key and rolled him onto the floor.’ He beckoned. ‘Come, Miss Stewart.’

  I walked round the table, swaying from the effects of the brandy. Hallengren traced the path Marcellus would have taken from the Locker Room. I saw immediately that, even if he’d been walking, he’d have reached his father’s room well before I turned into the corridor.

  That stiffening of the shoulders as I called goodnight. If it was Marcellus, it would explain why he hadn’t turned round. But something wasn’t right.

  As if reading my thoughts, Hallengren said, ‘Are you absolutely sure that you did not mistake the room?’

  ‘The man I saw came out of Harry’s room.’ I stared at the map. ‘Anyway, why would Marcellus be coming out of room 15?’

  ‘Because he had just murdered his father.’

  ‘His father was in room 17,’ I said in exasperation. ‘Marcellus, or whoever, came out of room 15.’

  His eyes fixed on mine. ‘The person you saw came out of room 15? Are you sure?’

  ‘That’s why I told you I thought it was Harry. Number 15 was Harry’s room.’

  He was staring blankly.

  I ran my finger over the last three rooms in the corridor. ‘Look. Wilson Bibby in room 17, me in room 16, and Harry in room 15.’

  ‘What did Harry’s room look like?’ he said softly, his eyes glued to the map.

  ‘It had a statue of Pan. Harry was afraid he wouldn’t be able to sleep with it grinning at him. He said – ’ I stopped, remembering Harry’s remark about the erection.

  Hallengren muttered in Swedish. He snatched up a folder from the desk, and leafed through it rapidly. His expression changed.

 
He thrust out a sheet of paper. ‘The receptionist gave me this on the morning Wilson’s body was discovered. It was printed from the hotel computer as I waited.’

  It was a list of names and room numbers. I scanned it, searching for my name and Harry’s.

  There was an edge to his voice. ‘It shows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Wilson Bibby was in room 15 and Harry Auchinleck, in room 17.’

  I stared as though seeing him for the first time. ‘That’s wrong,’ I said slowly.

  ‘How were you told which room you were in?’ he said, after a pause.

  ‘It was on Monday. Leo told us on the bus. And he posted a list of names and room numbers on the notice board in the foyer.’

  Hallengren grabbed the phone. A minute later, the duty policeman entered. Hallengren spoke briefly, showing him the sheet, and the man left, almost running.

  ‘I have sent for the receptionist who was on duty on Monday. Perhaps now we will get to the bottom of this mystery.’ He poured, watching me. ‘I would drink this, Miss Stewart. You may be glad of it by the time we have finished.’

  Chapter 26

  Hallengren’s expression was composed, almost sympathetic.

  He marched to the whiteboard, and stood thoughtfully for a minute. Then his pen moved quickly over the surface. My mind was in a whirl but, after the quantity of brandy I’d drunk, I was in no condition to work anything out. I sat down and settled back to wait.

  A while later, there was a knock at the door, and the policeman entered with the receptionist. I recognised the man with the round glasses who’d been on the Excelsior desk all week. He was agitated, licking his lips repeatedly. I felt sorry for him; Hallengren had a talent for making even innocent people nervous.

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Karlsson,’ Hallengren said, motioning to a chair.

  The man placed a folder on the table, straightening it with little taps of the hand.

  ‘Mr Karlsson,’ Hallengren said, keeping his tone friendly, ‘I need you to explain something that is puzzling me. How are rooms allocated in the Excelsior and the Icehotel?’

  The man looked bewildered, glancing from Hallengren to me and back again. ‘There is no secret to it. Guests are allocated the same number in both hotels. It makes it easy to remember.’